The Iron Castle

by Angus Donald

  ‘If King John is truly going to England, as you say, he must be going to gather fresh men. He will come to us; he must come to us.’

  ‘Monsieur!’ The ugly little fellow was at the flap of the tent. ‘It is time. We must away. The other monsieur is outside.’

  ‘King John cannot save you,’ Roland said. ‘You must trust me on this.’

  I said angrily, ‘Is this a ruse? Is this Philip’s way of sowing discord behind our walls? I think this is most dishonourable of you, cousin – that you should seek to trade on our kinship to gain advantage over your enemies.’

  ‘I do not lie. On my honour. Stay here with me, I beg you, or surrender very soon, or we will be forced to face each other in the fire of battle and only God knows what that outcome will be. I do not want to have to kill you, my dear Alan.’

  ‘You could not, even if you tried!’ I snarled at him.

  I had no more to say and strode out of the tent without thanking him for his wine or his company. With Gerard and Robin, and feeling like an ungrateful boor, I hurried across the silent camp and back towards the wicker gate.

  A little before dawn, when I was back in the outer bailey and wrapped in my blankets, I thought deeply about Roland’s words. It must be a ruse, I thought, it must be. King John, bad as he is, could not abandon Château Gaillard to the enemy. It would spell disaster for him. Roland had lied. But, even so, I could not hate him for long. He was honour-bound to serve his King, as I was to serve mine. It was his duty to persuade me to surrender by whatever means, fair or foul.

  I informed Roger de Lacy the next day of what Roland had said, along with my conviction that it was a ruse, and also passed along some scraps of information Robin had gathered from his campfire chats with the French soldiery.

  ‘It is a murky game you and Locksley play, Sir Alan,’ said de Lacy. ‘But I believe you have fathomed your cousin’s intent. Do not fear. King John will come. He might take a few weeks to muster all the available forces from England but he will come. He knows well that if Château Gaillard is lost, then so is Normandy. Also, he gave me his word of honour that he would do so. He will come and he will sweep these dogs from our walls. We must be patient, hold true to our purpose, and the King will surely come.’

  I was cheered by the castellan’s words. Not because John had given his royal word to de Lacy but because it was in truth unthinkable for the King to abandon the Iron Castle and, so, Normandy. King John, in his own sweet time, when he had mustered sufficient strength, must come to our aid or lose all.

  I gave de Lacy Roland’s message about the Useless Mouths.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the castellan, ‘we shall see about that, too.’

  Two days later I slept late after a night watch on the north tower and, rising at nearly noon and climbing to the battlements, I was puzzled to see a vast gathering of townspeople, mostly mothers and their children, but a few elderly men and women as well, in the courtyard of the middle bailey. By chance the man standing next to me was Stefan, the former denizen of Petit Andely who had spotted Robin’s nocturnal antics outside the walls. I asked what was happening. ‘They are sending them out,’ he said. ‘The last of them. My grandfather is down there, with my wife and baby son. I am so glad this is over for them, they will be safe at last.’

  I looked at him in amazement. Surely de Lacy could not have misunderstood the information I gave him. Surely de Lacy could not be expelling them when he knew what he knew? My head was spinning; I wasted precious moments cudgelling my brains to unravel the castellan’s true intent and, as a result, was far too late to do anything – for as I looked on, the gates of the castle creaked open and the last of the Useless Mouths, many hundreds of souls, eight hundred, nine hundred, perhaps as many as a thousand, limped out of the gate and began slowly to make their way down the path towards the river and the town.

  I raced for the stairs, tumbling down them, knocking a man-at-arms flying as I charged across the open space. Up the steps I went, across the drawbridge separating outer from middle bailey, and skidded to a halt in the middle of the courtyard just as the last of the Useless Mouths was shuffling out of the gate, and the doors were swinging shut behind him.

  I sprinted for the gatehouse, spotting de Lacy’s broad back high up on the gallery above the portal, the man himself evidently looking out on the departing folk. I managed to calm myself and climb the stairs. A deep feeling of dread filled my bowels. When I reached the gallery, I saw that Robin was standing beside de Lacy, with Vim beyond him. I half-expected my lord and de Lacy to be whispering darkly like murderers but both stood perfectly still, their shoulders square, heads up, watching the raggedy procession wend its way towards the French ramparts. Vim nodded at me, but his face was grim, and he took up a position at Robin’s shoulder, facing me, as if he wished to prevent me from coming close to my lord. I went to the stone rim of the gallery, a few yards from Robin and the castellan, and looked at the stream of humanity filing down the path.

  When the first of the Useless Mouths came within fifty yards of the French, my wildest hopes were dashed. The gates set in the earthen hill remained firmly closed and the heads of half a hundred men-at-arms appeared on the ramparts. The foremost of the pathetic horde called to the enemy and indistinct replies were made, but the gates stayed shut.

  Then, to my horror, I heard a shout of command in French, and an evil cloud of bolts flew up from the earthen walls, hung in the sky and came down upon the unfortunate herd of frightened, unarmed, unarmoured women, children and old men. As the Useless Mouths were crowded together, almost every bolt found a mark. People staggered and dropped as the deadly bolts punched through their miserable rags and into vulnerable flesh. They cried out piteously, mewling and calling that they were not belligerents but harmless citizens of Petit Andely seeking mercy. Mercy! The French reply was another flight of missiles. Again the bolts soared, hung and dropped – I saw a child of no more than five years spitted through its skeletal arm, and heard his mother’s howl as she snatched him up and ran to the ramparts shouting madly and holding out her wounded child so the crossbowmen could see the results of their work. Yet more quarrels lashed the crowd, plucking souls from the earth, here and there, maiming others, pinning yet others to the ground, and at last the mob splintered and the people dropped their meagre belongings and fled back up the slope, leaving more than two dozen still on the ground before the French walls.

  I was frozen, aghast. The wretches scrambled up towards us, some on all fours in their haste to escape, ignoring the winding path and coming straight up the hillside, clawing at the rock and turf like scurrying animals, hundreds of souls, many wounded, trailing blood, surging upwards, crying out for us to open the gates and let them back inside, begging for the protection of the Iron Castle.

  A mass of humanity soon formed outside our main gate, hundreds upon hundreds of bewildered men and women, their lined faces and wide, rolling eyes looking up at Roger de Lacy as he stood like a statue above the gate – which also remained firmly shut. They called to their lord, begging him to re-admit them. De Lacy looked down on them, his face a mask of implacable calm.

  He raised his hands to still the babble of the Useless Mouths. An uneasy quiet descended over the multitude below.

  ‘I cannot admit you. I cannot feed you,’ he said. ‘Your fate is in God’s hands.’

  A chorus of howls broke out. I could see old men and women I had passed the time of day with in the castle courtyard; I could see children I had watched at play on the ramparts with our men-at-arms. Now they were shouting that they had been tricked; that it was de Lacy’s duty to protect them.

  ‘I cannot admit you,’ de Lacy said again. ‘I cannot. You must depart these walls. Go with God!’

  The confused shouting broke out once more.

  ‘Go from here,’ said de Lacy. ‘You must go hence from my walls or face the consequences.’ He made a gesture with his right hand as if plucking a low-hanging apple from a branch above his head. On the top of the towers to
both left and right of the gatehouse, I saw men standing up and stringing bows. It was the archers. It was the Wolves.

  The Useless Mouths saw them and wailed.

  ‘Go,’ said de Lacy. ‘Go with God!’

  The archers had nocked arrows and were beginning to draw the hempen strings back on their bows.

  ‘Robin,’ I said, ‘you cannot do this. These are our people. We owe them our protection. Not … this!’

  Vim was standing before me. Big, grim, calm-faced. ‘Let this go, Alan.’

  I looked the mercenary hard in the eye. ‘Get out of my path, Vim, right now. I would speak face to face with my liege lord.’

  ‘No, Sir Alan.’ Vim sounded oddly sad. ‘I cannot. He is my lord, too, and he has asked me to make sure that you see sense.’

  ‘Out of my way, Vim. Last chance.’ My fingers were on the handle of my sword, and I believe I would have used it and taken the consequences, but I was distracted by a wild shout from inside the walls. Stefan was running across the courtyard of the middle bailey. He had a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other and was waving both madly as he ran towards the guard post where the men who operated the opening mechanism stood watch. He was calling for them to open the gates and yelling that if they would not he would slay them and undertake the task in their stead.

  He got within a dozen paces of them before he was felled by four arrows that thumped into his belly and chest simultaneously, dropping him stone dead. I made to draw Fidelity, but felt a grip of iron on my wrist, and now Robin’s face was inches from my own.

  ‘Let this go, Alan. Think, just think for a moment.’

  His extraordinary silver eyes were looking into mine with such an intensity that I was forced to close my own. I let out a great, shuddering evil breath, my shoulders dropped, my soul sagged, and I released the grip on my hilt.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Robin, and he half-pulled and half-guided me off the gallery into the little space at the top of the steps to the courtyard.

  He stared into my face. ‘Have you mastered yourself?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Do you understand why we cannot let them back in?’

  I nodded again. I was on the lip of disgracing myself with childish tears.

  ‘I will tell you anyway. So that we are as clear as crystal. We cannot hold this castle and feed those hungry mouths. It is a cruel choice. King John will surely come to our aid. But we must do our part. We must hold this castle until he comes and we cannot do so if we are dead of hunger. We cannot feed them and also feed our fighting men. We cannot hold even another week against Philip if we must nourish those wretches down there. It is the castle or them. Tell me you understand.’

  I nodded a third time.

  ‘Tell me in words. Say to me the words: “I understand”.’

  ‘Robin, you tell me, why do we serve this King?’

  ‘You know why, and if we are not true to our oaths, we are nothing. Our oaths are our honour. Now, tell me you understand.’

  ‘I … understand.’

  ‘Good, now go and find Kit and explain matters to him. And get yourself something to eat. But not too much. From now on, every morsel is a precious jewel.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Useless Mouths – oh, how I came to shudder at that name – built pathetic homes on the steeps slopes of the hill below Château Gaillard, to the north-east of the citadel, between the castle walls, the banks of the Seine and the earth ramparts of the French. It was a pitiful encampment: a few scrapes in the chalk to make shallow caves to keep the children out of the worst of the weather; a few shelters of crudely hacked out turfs supported by mud walls, sticks and stones; no food but what could be scavenged from the bare hillside – herbs, roots, a berry or two – and nothing to keep them warm but the rags on their backs.

  It was early November then, cold and windswept, with a constant threat of rain or worse. After a few days the weakest among the Useless Mouths began to die.

  Even inside the castle we had scant stores left. We had fed the people of Petit Andely for nearly two months, a dull and meagre diet, to be sure, but the vastly swollen population of the castle had eaten its way through nine-tenths of Château Gaillard’s stores. Winter was coming. But we had the fighting men to hold until John came and all those inside the walls shared the grim determination that the sacrifices made by the Useless Mouths would not be in vain. Or so our leaders told us.

  De Lacy addressed the whole garrison from the wall of the inner bailey on the day after the last of the Useless Mouths had been expelled. It was a rousing speech, once again, about courage and fortitude, mentioning the strength of our walls and the rightness of our cause. He assured us once more that King John was even now collecting fresh men-at-arms from England to ride to our rescue. I did not pay much attention, to be honest. I could hardly bear to look at the castellan, let alone swallow his foul nonsense about the Christ-like sacrifice of the noble citizens of Petit Andely.

  ‘We have thirty-one valiant knights here,’ de Lacy said, ‘full of honour and prowess and armed with a determination that can never be conquered; we have two hundred and fifty-three brave men-at-arms. And we have a hundred and four strong and willing men who have bravely volunteered for this fight…’

  And one brave woman, I thought to myself.

  I looked up at the ramparts where Roger de Lacy was ignoring the drizzle and exhorting his garrison to fight on, and looked to his left at Robin, Father de la Motte and Sir Joscelyn Giffard standing there stern and silent – and at Matilda Giffard, who seemed to be smiling down only at me.

  The rations were cut again, to a quarter of a loaf of bread per man per day and a piece of rock-hard cheese no bigger than a dove’s egg. A cup of dried peas or sometimes beans and a few shreds of salted beef were issued to each man once a week, and in the outer bailey we made big cauldrons of soup from it and all the members of a watch shared it equally. It was a watery, bland-tasting slop, but it was hot and, at least once a week, with our bread and cheese ration we could feel almost satisfied. The rest of the time we were hungry. Hunger crouched darkly beside us all day, every day, like our own shadows, ever-present, never forgotten. The weight began to fall from my body; I bored another hole in my belt, and then another. I dreamed of food; the men seemed to talk of it all the time – great feasts they had enjoyed, the feast they would like to have when the siege was over. It only made things worse. But, if there was little food and no wine to be had, there was at least plenty of water. I took to drinking it hot, in large beakers with dried herbs infused in the brew to give it some taste. Pints of it. It made the stomach feel, for a while, that it was full. The faces around me began to look gaunt. My belly skin became looser.

  But, if we suffered hardships within the walls, it did not bear comparison with the fate of the Useless Mouths.

  The weather grew colder; in December the rain turned to snow. The calls for mercy from the folk outside our walls never seemed to cease, day or night. One of the volunteers threw his bread ration down to his aged mother who called out to him piteously from the bottom of the east wall – the poor old woman was crushed to death in the riot as her fellow unfortunates, now thin as wraiths, stick-like confections of rags and burning, febrile want, fought each other tooth and nail for the crust. They had to be driven from the walls with crossbow bolts. Roger de Lacy had the volunteer hanged in the courtyard as an example. Wasting food became a capital offence. We closed our ears to the cries of the Useless Mouths, but hideous stories began to circulate – among these wretches, Kit told me, a woman had given birth to a stillborn child only to see it ripped apart and devoured still warm from her body by her own family and friends. I drank my hot water and herbs, munched my crust of bread and nibbled my nugget of cheese – and gave thanks for it to God.

  Our one piece of good luck was that, in the middle of December, a few days before the Feast of the Nativity, the bombardment, which had slowed to a trickle in the previous weeks, a few missiles loosed a day, st
opped altogether. Perhaps the siege-machines had broken down; perhaps they had run out of missiles. Perhaps the engineers who manned them had gone home to their families for Christmas to feast on roast goose and fat pork and fruit pies with thick cream, and to make merry with wine and cider, the Wolves muttered, eyes murderous with jealousy.

  On Christmas day, Vim, Robin, Kit and I dined on a pair of fat rats that Kit had trapped in the storerooms, killed, skinned, gutted and stuffed with crumbled bread and herbs, smeared with a little oil and salt, and roasted. They were, I must confess, absolutely delicious. Robin begged, bought or borrowed, but most likely stole, a skin of good red wine from somewhere. My lord and I sang some of the jollier English folk songs together; Vim told us some blood-curdling stories of his life as a mercenary; Kit became dizzy and gigglesome on the single cup of wine he drank; and we were able to celebrate the birth of Our Lord in decent style.

  One piece of bad luck in that bad time, was that Tilda took up a post in the underground storerooms acting as an unofficial clerk to Sir Benedict Malet. Her ability to read, write and calculate numbers meant that although, being a woman, she could not fight on the walls, she was valuable to the castle in the recording and husbanding of our dwindling stores – not that she would ever have been expelled as one of the Useless Mouths. Her father, and for that matter I, would never have allowed that to happen. But this also meant that, while I saw her twice a week when I went to collect the rations for the outer bailey, I could never be alone with her for any length of time. Benedict, that lardy pimple-garden, was always interrupting us in our private conversations and sending Tilda away on errands when I dropped by, asking her to fetch this sack or that box, to take a message to the guards in the keep or other such excuses to keep her out of my company. And I could not see much of her when she was not employed with the store work, for now she was the only woman in the castle, Sir Joscelyn kept an especially close eye on her and she was cloistered in his quarters in the inner bailey for many hours of every day, and for all of the hours of darkness.